Surveillance
by Gevaudan
Summary: Illya and Napoleon are being followed while on a mission in London. But who by, and for what purpose?


Author's note: This sprung into being in my head during a drive to the supermarket. My grocery run is often fraught with surveillance from unknown agents _(in my mind...)_

 **Surveillance**

The driver's blue eyes glanced into the rear view mirror, quickly noting the make and model of the following vehicle before his attention returned to the road ahead. Smoothly, he accelerated the rental car around a stopped bus and made a last minute left hand turn, avoiding a backlog of London traffic queued in front of them before he glanced again at the lights behind.

His dark haired passenger quirked an eyebrow at him, momentarily confused by the abrupt change in route.

"Scenic route, Illya?" Napoleon Solo asked, his deep American voice deceptively nonchalant, even as he reached for the pistol he had stored in the glovebox.

The Russian shook his head, his blond bangs glittering in the headlights of the oncoming traffic. Again he executed a last minute turn, and watched in the mirror until a familiar set of headlights made an identical manoeuvre.

"I think," there was a hint of amusement in Kuryakin's voice, "that we are being, somewhat amateurishly, followed."

Napoleon turned his attention to the car behind, as he tried to determine how many people it carried. He could clearly make out the driver, and a front passenger but was unable to confirm if there were more in the back seat.

"You think it's THRUSH?" he asked.

Illya didn't answer for a moment, but glanced again at their tail, eyebrows furrowing as he made his assessment.

"I am not certain," he said, after a long moment, "but I suspect not. Given the make and model I suspect a government issue car, rather than a THRUSH-mobile."

He made another turn, and noted the duplicated move behind him with a wry smile.

"Any idea why?" Solo queried, trying to recollect any previous Affairs that may have placed them on the radar of local law enforcement. Given that they had only arrived in England four hours ago for this trip it seemed unlikely that they had in that time done something to earn their ire, or even their interest.

Kuryakin shrugged indifferently.

"Nothing that I can think of," he confirmed, "I think it is probably speculative on their part."

At Solo's curious head tilt he continued, "Without wishing to brag Napoleon, yourself and I have solved a number of high-profile cases. That alone makes us interesting to these people - they follow us to make sure that their intelligence hasn't missed anything that may, what is the phrase? Bite them on the foot?"

Solo shook his head fondly but made no comment as the Russian continued.

"Couple that with the usual concerns and it is no surprise that we have picked up an accessory."

Usual concerns?" Despite the Russian's apparent ease, several years of working side by side had taught Solo the tells in his voice which revealed an undercurrent of tension.

"Napoleon, you forget my friend that I am a Russian military officer who now serves a global organisation, based in the United States, in an enforcement capacity . Consequently, wherever I am in the world, intelligence agencies seem to have no small amount of interest in where I am, what I am doing and, most importantly, from _whom_ my orders come." he shrugged, again, "it keeps them occupied."

Napoleon nodded as he considered his partner's words. Given the length of Illya's tenure at UNCLE, it was, despite the accent, easy to forget that the other man had sworn an allegiance to another master, one who still held considerably sway over the blond agent's future. Consequently, he'd never really given much thought to how that fact impacted on the other man's day to day life.

"Wherever you are?" he queried, idly, "you mean even when we are in New York?"

Illya laughed wryly, inwardly regretting the turn the conversation had taken. He had long since become resigned to being a subject of interest, no matter where he was, but he hadn't really wanted to telegraph that to Napoleon. Still, it didn't do to lie to the Chief Enforcement Agent, particularly when he had the power to assign all expense reports to you until you gave him the information he wanted.

"Especially when I am in New York, Napoleon. You are no doubt aware that Mr Waverly was met with a great deal of opposition when he asked for a Russian agent to be brought to UNCLE. Consequently, there are many who wish to make sure that I am _behaving_ myself. Currently, there is usually Phil, Steve and Bob," he grinned wickedly, "They get very nervous when I visit some of the Russian tea rooms, when we are at home - they probably speak Russian but their Ukrainian is deplorable."

"How have I never noticed them?" asked Solo curiously, bracing with one hand on the dash as Illya made a particularly sharp turn.

"They clearly see you as a bastion of American loyalty," Illya conceded, "They appear to be more concerned at what I am up to when I am 'off the clock' in New York."

" _Tovarish"_ Napoleon was clearly appalled on his partner's behalf, "Why have you never mentioned this? Does Mr Waverly know?"

"Of course," Illya replied, clearly amused by the idea that the CIA could slip anything past their wily boss, "he is of the opinion that as I have nothing to hide there is nothing to be concerned about."

"But..."

"Napoleon, he is right. I would never do anything to compromise my position within UNCLE, therefore there is nothing to be concerned about. Mr Waverly has always been very efficient at smoothing out any unfortunate misunderstandings, and undoubtedly I would be under far more scrutiny were I to be back in Russia."

Napoleon sighed deeply, unable to comprehend such a life under surveillance, and yet understanding completely how it had come to pass.

"Cheer up," encouraged Illya, uncharacteristically, "It is not so bad. It's only when they try and hide things in my apartment that it is particularly irritating. Mr Waverly has tried to dissuade them of this particular habit, but it appears that some of them are somewhat stubborn."

"In your _apartment_? Christ Illya, does it not bother you?" the idea of such an invasion of his partner's privacy was abhorrent to him.

Illya shrugged again.

"Not really," he commented, "They don't learn much. They are unforgivably poor at hiding their devices."

"Dare I ask what you do with them?" asked Solo, tentatively.

The question was enough to earn him one the Russian's rare grins.

"Nothing," he answered brightly, "I merely streamline their surveillance to the confines of a jar in the bottom of my wardrobe," he paused for a moment, before he added wickedly, "In my darker moments I like to imagine the feedback-induced headaches which they are doubtless experiencing."

Napoleon laughed openly at that, remembering with very little sympathy, the ear-piercing screeches that could result from putting audio devices too close to each other.

"That seems fair to me," he commented, before adding " _tovarish,_ if you ever want to visit one of those tea rooms without Phil, Steve or Bob, just let me know. I'd be happy to share a samovar or two, if you think that will reassure them as to your intentions."

Illya nodded gratefully at his friend, before returning his attention to the rear view mirror.

"Now," Solo continued, glancing at the sky, "I think we should lose our friends there, get to the rendezvous point, collect that microdot and be on our way before it snows."

Although he said nothing, Illya putting his foot to the floor was answer enough.


End file.
